


To Curse A Life

by twistedthicket1



Series: Reincarnate [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, Suicide, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has decided he wants to keep John. That in short, he doesn't want to die if it means spending an eternity without his lover and best friend. However that may be more difficult to do then at first thought as they approach closer and closer to a Fall. What happens when Sherlock realizes that maybe keeping John entails more than he thought? What happens if keeping his blogger becomes a Curse onto John himself?</p><p>Not all of his lives have been pleasant, and some of his lives have ended in darker ways.<br/>So can Sherlock justify in his mind dragging the one person he loves most down with him into the darkness?</p><p>sequel to To Twist Fate. Would be helpful to read that first :3</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Curse A Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anihan (Nakagami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/gifts).



> so this started off as a single oneshot and has bloomed into this wonderful mess! :D thank you Anihan(nakagami) again for the original prompt!
> 
> I plan to do one last oneshot in this verse for the finale!
> 
> kudos and comments are loved and cherished and kept in a jar! and if you have a prompt please let me know ;P

 

 

**“Pages on pages echoing still,**

**a story that ends in a falling each time.**

**The tale retold has reached its fill,**

**now a new tale begins to shine.”**

 

“ _The Man who is not part of the tale,_

_a new character to play The Game._

_Will Watson's love cause the cycle to fail,_

_or will it tame the heart it's claimed?”_

 

“ _ **A man must fall and a man must die,**_

_**that part of the tale cannot change.** _

_**Yet is falling a physical act or a lie?** _

_**When the heart can fall just the same?** _

_**The Spell has its grip, its clutches too tight.** _

_**It cannot be refused.** _

_**Yet to break its bond one cannot fight,** _

_**its' rules less the cycle breaks its truce.”** _

 

 

 

It is raining in the sort of pale, apologetic way that London is so famous for, and Gregory Lestrade once again longs for the sunny summers of his homeland. Of course, it would be a little bit difficult for him to make a trip back to the rolling golden fields and lush green foliage of his memories, as his homeland hasn't existed for a few thousand years. Still he longs for it, the bright colours as opposed to grey, dreary washed out watercolour background that greets his window and makes him want to just burrow deeper under the blankets for fear of somehow getting damp. No one would stop him from doing so, after all his bedside was yet again empty and cold. Abandoned to the point where it lay made and pristine, the pillows not even bearing an indent of his wife's head. She was out again, most likely in someone else's bed. Most likely embraced in another person's arms. He sighed a little, the dull ache just between his ribs not new but not pleasant all the same. As part of his curse went, Greg's marriages usually did not end well. That was a fact that he had accepted many times over, his _Awakenings_ often reminding him in full force his impressive track record of a failed love-life. They tended to be fraught with malfunctions, in the past having been anything from an unfaithful spouse to squabbling children to disease taking away the people he loved. Often he woke himself up in a cold sweat, recollecting families and children that he never got to see grow old, and never got to know what happened to them. It was quite possible in some ways that Greg had a few thousand relatives, what with all of the sons and daughters of his past that he could never hope to trace or find. Even now he mused a little bit sadly over the fact that he would probably soon be departing from this world and leaving his sixteen year old Abbie and his twelve year old Aaron behind. It was hard though to actually cry over it though, like some might expect him to. It was just with all of his memories returned, Greg was a little bit numb in regards to leaving people.

Like pale charcoal, their faces in the course of the past couple of weeks had begun to just blur into the features of others before.

 

That in a way was how Greg knew that soon he was going to die.

 

He rubbed then at the Mark on his chest, knowing that somewhere out there, Sherlock was probably feeling the pins and needles that burned just under his skin as well. They both had one, just at their hearts. A birthmark of sorts, shaped in the uncanny form of the face of an owl. Or not so uncanny if one was aware of The Curse, and who the owl was meant to represent. Athena when she had been alive still had a sense of humour even when she was gone, he'd give her that.

 

Which was why he now lay in his empty bed, staring fixedly up at the ceiling, and bemoaned the fact that he didn't have the willpower to remain even unconsciously alone and unattached. In a way, he had always respected Sherlock for having that gift. That way about him that even when he hadn't _Awakened_ , he never formed lasting relationships that meant anything.

He huffs out a small laugh at that, gently reminding himself of the new predicament this reincarnation has presented upon them.

 

Well, at least until _John._

 

****

Sherlock privately is very frustrated with himself. He has lived for countless decades, experienced life in hundreds of thousands of different scenarios, and has been both a beggar and a prince at different stages of time.

 

So how is it that he still cannot make a bloody cup of tea to save his life?

 

The proof of his ineptitude was in the way John painfully tried to avoid grimacing as he sipped at his cup, his hair still mussed and sticking out at odd angles from sleep so that he resembled a sort of golden hedgehog. He lounged in his comfortably large chair, a piece of furniture that Sherlock had once considered ugly but now only reminded him of fond memories of his companion and now partner. They had been together now for about exactly a month and two days, something that the Detective privately marvelled at even as he watched his lover reach for his laptop, opening it and typing in his password, something Sherlock had guessed long ago.

_His military number. Only had to find his dog tags to figure it out._

 

He hasn't told him yet that he really should be better at making tea than he is.

Hasn't told him that the cup he drinks out of is actually a most likely priceless artefact from one of his earlier reincarnations, a gift from a duchess of Verona as way of thanks for when he had solved the mystery of her stolen jewellery (though then he had been called Saverio). Mrs. Hudson had kept it for him after he had fallen (jumped actually, he had hated that particular reincarnation because it had been boring to no end) from the balcony and onto the hard cobblestone steps of the street below. It had on it a miniature pained violin, music notes painted along it's cream porcelain surface and now partially covered by John's familiar hands. The present holding the past, not even aware of the connection.

It was almost sickening, how domestic the whole thing was. Minus the fact that Sherlock had _Awakened_ recently, and that meant his death was near if not imminent. So far, the fact that he had lived an entire month was impressive, to say the least. With the darker turn of thought his fingers drummed on his knee, a feeling of unease coursing through him. He'd been suppressing that train of his mind lately, more focused on the present. After all, Moriarty was beginning to irk him deeply, his games becoming quickly more elaborate and progressively violent. He wanted to at least solve the case before he died, if possible.

 

There was also the small, ever so important niggling fact that he didn't really _want_ to die.

 

Which was a new feeling in itself. By the time his death rolled around, Sherlock was nearly always prepared for it, if not jumping at the bit to move on. To sleep for a few years until he was born anew, completely devoid of memories and unknowing of the burden of his Curse. It was a relief from the constant monotonous drone of everyday life, something that even London itself couldn't ease. Yes, in a way Sherlock would have already been done with the city, his mind already memorized every curve of its' sloping streets, every twist and every road sign like tracing the skin of an old friend or one's own hand. Even the murders like stark sparks of nail varnish eventually lost their lustrous colour.

Except for John.

 

Because John saw London differently. _Made_ Sherlock see it with new eyes. The rain was no longer hateful and dreary, because it meant that John would be wrapped up in the afghan when he got home, sipping a mug of tea or hot chocolate and looking decidedly toasty and welcoming for Sherlock to come home to. The streets were no longer dull because now another set of footsteps clattered after him, travelled with him even as they chased after criminals and thieves like some kind of modern Batman and Robin (a film John had forced him to watch, except that his flatmate couldn't stop laughing when he realized that the flair of the hero's dark cape looked just like Sherlock's coat). Even the sun held its' own special hue when it beheld his good Doctor, because it illuminated t blue in John's eyes and turned them into sapphire's, warm and sweet and _kind._

 

Sherlock had studied complex chemicals, organisms and strange diseases and murders and crimes all of his existence, even before this life, and he had never, not once, been so _fascinated_ by something before in his life.

 

Which was why something _had_ to be done.

Because he was a selfish bastard, down to the core. And Sherlock Holmes wanted John. Wanted John more than anything or anyone in the entirety of the world.

 

_He did not **want** to die._

 

So he vowed right there and then even as his lover snorted and made fun of his tea making abilities in a comfortable way that he just wouldn't die.

That he may Fall a thousand feet onto cold concrete ground but that even with his lungs crushed in he wouldn't stop breathing. He wouldn't allow his heart to stop. Not so that he could be reborn again into an equally dull world with nothing to relieve him of his boredom. Not so he could _Awaken_ again only to be tortured with memories that he would probably prefer forgotten if he could never touch the person behind them again.

 

John doesn't seem to notice the way Sherlock's eyes darken. Nor does he question it when the Detective suddenly stands up and walks behind his chair, draping his arms around him possessively. Instead he leans into the touch, a bright smile of blessed out contentment on his features, unaware of the wolf he embraced hidden under dark curls and high cheekbones.

 

Not until he figured out a way to either take John with him.

Or at the very least end the cycle so he wouldn't be reincarnated into a world without his companion.

 

****

John still sometimes felt like he was in the middle of a dream. A dream he didn't totally control but could lucidly point in certain directions, guiding it but never fully having a grasp of its' strength or its' main purpose. He supposed he had felt this way since he had returned home from Afghanistan, or to be more precise the moment he had decided to room with a mad genius of a flatmate who shot holes in the wall out of boredom and solved crimes like it was a present handed to him wrapped on Christmas Day. Like a man following the path of a maze, he could point to the ultimate destination that he wanted roughly, but could never fully comprehend which turns and winding roads he would have to go down to reach it. Since the little drunk fiasco he had pulled ultimately lead him to bedding Sherlock, and then later _being_ with him in a relationship, most of the time he couldn't bring himself to complain. In fact, he was secretly shocked with just how _easily_ all the pieces had come together in his life after both of them acknowledged the feelings they had for one another for so long.

 

Of course, that wasn't to say there weren't a few bumps.

Naturally, both of them had panicked the morning of, thinking that they had taken advantage of each other and that the other hadn't felt the same way. Sherlock had even fallen out of bed over it, and John chuckled slightly to himself at the memory even as he sipped his tea. Then made a face because he hadn't actually made it and it was thin and watery at best.

Later on though when they had both been able to face each other without muttering embarrassed apologies and flailing awkwardly for the right words to express their feelings, it was like two puzzle pieces fitting together in perfect synchrony. They had become so attuned to each other already, it had really only been the final brush stroke to a painting already flushed out to react to each other's bodies' sexually. Like a dash of red to brighten and sweeten the rest of the base colours.

 

Yet a part of John could tell that Sherlock was somehow afraid this wouldn't last. That he'd in some way gotten into that brilliantly stupid head of his that John would disappear at a moment's breath or break like he was made of tissue paper and tossed into the Thames. He saw it in the almost delicate way the Detective would reach out and touch his shoulder for no reason at all, or in the flash of insecurity that flickered in his eyes. He would almost guess that Sherlock had been hurt by a past lover before, except for the vehemence in which the man insisted that he

“ _had never felt this way before about anyone”._

 

John was patient with it. He knew especially that if Sherlock truly hadn't had any kind of semblance of a relationship before, he'd be prone to personal quirks and insecurities. He treated each of his moments gently, silently reassuring him that he wasn't going anywhere by leaning into his touch or responding to his embrace with chaste kisses against his lips. He listened when the Detective felt the need to sit him down and tell him how “awful” he was with relationships, and then promptly shown Sherlock that he understood by telling him his own faults. How he was prone to be sexual, but that he would never force that on him if he didn't want it. That he didn't always understand the man's babbling or how he sometimes had nightmares (though Sherlock had those too, he just wasn't usually loud when he had them). They bared their scars to one another, and comforted each other with the knowledge that separated their faults flourished, but together they became better.

 

After all, John had a few insecurities of his own.

For one, he had never been with a man before.

Though that shouldn't have impacted him heavily, he found that sometimes it did. For much of his life as he had watched his older sister Harry get belittled and bullied because of her open lesbianism, a part of John had always recoiled away from coining himself as any particular sexual orientation. He had remained open, but predominantly straight, his attraction falling ultimately towards curves as opposed to muscle. There were his army days, but those times were brought on by stress and the fear of having one's head blown off by a bomb at any moment. Nobody got that close to another person, man or woman, and didn't have some kind of bond with them by the end of their service. In the end it had all amounted to nothing, and John had continued dating women and ultimately breaking up with them, and now he found himself in a happier relationship than he had ever experienced before in his life.

It just _happened_ to be with a man.

 

And it was fine.

Odd, but all fine.

 

 

So he wasn't particularly bothered when Sherlock suddenly came around in a protective fit of nerves and wrapped himself around him like a cocoon, chalking it up to him merely drifting on the haze of post-coital bliss that lead to his own happy grin and tingling skin. And he gently told his lover that he

“ _Was a lot better at sex than making tea.”_

 

And in return Sherlock grumbled something about how he didn't feel like it was worth his _time_ to make decent tea in typical caustic fashion. But John wasn't offended, because he could feel the small smile pressed against the inside of his neck, and he couldn't care less about the quality of what he was drinking. Then he's gone, chasing after his coat and tossing it over his shoulders with all the casual grace he possessed without seemingly any remote effort on his part. His phone is in his hands, his fingers flying over the keys, and John returns to his blog, entitling the name of his entry

_A Study In Tea._

 

****

“Have you found anything Mycroft?”

 

Mycroft Holmes, _**Protector**_ of Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade, considered how much wealth he could acquire if he had a pound for every time he heard those words uttered at him by an insufferable man in a long black belstaff. Probably enough in these past weeks alone to buy out a small Mediterranean island, or perhaps a yacht. He leaned back in the chair of his desk, rolling his tired eyes as he wearily asked

 

“And just _who_ let you into my office _again_?”

 

 

In return his 'brother' snorted, sitting himself down on the chair across from him and kicking his feet up on the solid mahogany desk so that his dark shoes glinted brightly under the lamplight. Mycroft glared pointedly at his feet, resisting the urge to reach over and throttle the man by his robin's-egg blue scarf. Instead he keep his face impassive and imagines what it would look like to see Sherlock Holmes turn that exact shade of blue from asphyxiation to calm some of the blood-lust building in his system. Sherlock folded his hands across his stomach, twiddling his thumbs in a bored way. Except his eyes flicked restlessly about him, not quite able to cover up his pent-up energy. He had been this way since the delivering of the new _**Prophecy**_ , hell everyone had. All balancing on the edge of a knife-point, as if some new words could somehow change anything. Frankly Mycroft was more than just a little bit skeptical. After all, Athena's Spell was over a thousand years old and it hadn't changed even a fraction of an inch in its' Contract since its' Creation. If anything, the Ice Man wondered if the new rhymes and riddles meant that the Magic was simply beginning to warp, if Magic could do that, fray and tear with age like a ribbon pulled taught at the seams. Of course he didn't know, despite the research he had been keeping and going back to now and then every other century. He may have been the only one out of all the _Reincarnates_ (For as dramatic as it sounded, it was as good a name as any other for the creatures surrounding Greg and Sherlock) to have actually _met_ Athena, but that hadn't meant she had bothered to tell him anything. Still they expected him to be the leader, and most of the time Mycroft was all too happy to oblige. Except when Sherlock got the manic look in his eye he wore now, glittering coolly under his brow.

He leaned against the desk suddenly, moving his feet back down to the floor. His knuckles were white as they tightened into fists.

 

“We need _**The Book.**_ ”

 

He began, but his elder brother scoffed and rolled his eyes before he could continue.

 

“ _ **The Book Of Moons**_ ;Sherlock hasn't allowed anyone access to its' pages in a near millennia, not since Dianna still roamed the earth with her Hunters. What makes you think you can open it when I have had everyone from scientists to supposed _Witch Doctors_ try and break its' Seal?”

 

His younger brother's gaze drops to his hands for a fraction of a second, and Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He adjusted his tie and leaned forward slightly, attempting to keep his tone even.

“What?”

 

Sherlock's grin is not apologetic. Though it _is_ slightly sulking.

“She was meant to be blackmail material. For another time....”

 

“ _Sherlock-”_

 

“She had a daughter, Mycroft.”

 

And then Sherlock Holmes looked up, blue-green eyes glowing softly as he grinned. It was a knowing smile, one that came with the ability to read people. To find out secrets that not even the Gods should know.

 

“Dianna the virgin wasn't nearly as virtuous as she claimed. Her daughter's been living within my various Homeless Networks for about a hundred years now.”

 

A poignant, pregnant pause. Then Mycroft sighs sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering at the infinite stupidity of a man who claimed to have the wisdom of a thousand different lifetimes. Then he reaches for his phone, grumbling seven terse words.

 

“I need to call Gregory. _Don't. Move._ ”

 

****

“Sherlock - _argh-_ where are we going?”

 

“ _Watch your step that is a perfectly useful homeless man!_ Isobel _...._ she tends to hide herself away.....We'll have to hunt fairly deep inside the Network to find her.”

 

Greg sighs, muttering an apology to the decidedly strung out bundle of rags he has just tripped over even while tilting his head back to strain to catch a glimpse of stars beyond the alley they were puttering about in. It is the middle of the god-damn night and already he feels like he could just keel over and go to sleep. Preferably with Myc in his bed beside him as the kids were away and the wife predictably was not going to show. As it was he wondered just what thin excuse Sherlock had used to sneak out of the flat without his faithful Army Doctor tagging along, as John tended to follow danger just as readily as the Detective himself. He half suspected the answer lay in the fact that when he knocked on the flat door there had been a bottle of paracetamols left open and a glass of water already drained. Of course he raised his brow and scowled at Sherlock upon seeing it, and the Detective had the nerve to at least look a little bit guilty about drugging his boyfriend/flatmate/whateverthehellyoucalledtwomenshaggingwhoinsistedatthesametimetheywere _not_ gay.

 

But true to form, he doesn't react when his friend had stated

“You're going to have to tell him. _Soon._ ”

 

 

In truth both had known the unspoken behind that sentence.

_So he can prepare for the worst-case scenario._

 

Chances were Sherlock didn't want to hear it.

Greg supposed he was lucky with love in at least one regard.

 

The only person that really mattered to him was in the exact same boat. Even if he _did_ forget about Mycroft until it was really too late for them to do anything more than the physical re-establishment of their love. He always welcomed him back, even though it hurt so much to lose him all over again. Even if he had married before and had kids. He accepted it all, so long as Greg always came back in the end like gravity trapped onto Earth. But those kinds of thoughts were ones that Lestrade had difficulty addressing and dealing with, and his throat tightened uncomfortably with emotions he could never bear to face. So he forced himself to look at the lamps that glowed in bright orbs in the cold of the night until the aching passed, his hands in his pockets and his breath measured and even.

 

If Sherlock noticed his quiet descent into his own mind, he was either just as lost or pretended not to notice.

 

Their torches made bright circles, illuminating their steps as they travelled into the tunnels of the abandoned tubes that were lined with graffiti and grit. The deeper they went down into the winding maze-like system of arched beams and huddled figures, the more and More Greg was reminded of the catacombs in France. In a past life he had lived down in them, and the memory was not pleasant. He shivered at the cool touch of stone, recalling how it felt to have a home that never touched the sun. The dirty faces that peered at him suspiciously bared their teeth against the brightness of his lights, and he was partly sure that the only reason he wasn't mugged was because those same eyes looked to Sherlock with what could only be described as grudging respect. Still he kept a hand to the holster of his gun, much to the Detective's bemused snort.

 

It is when they actually come to the end of the dark tunnel that Lestrade finally wonders if his Isobel girl exists at all, when there is a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.

In a flash his weapon is out, but Sherlock's hand is tightening about his wrist, keeping him from taking proper aim. The shadow that has detached itself from the stone wall is small and lithe, and t first Greg thinks that the woman is black until he realizes in a somewhat embarrassed blink that she's merely coated with dirt from head to toe. Her eyes glow a blazing blue underneath the grime, the kind of silvery colour that reminded the man of fish scales or perhaps a blue moon, and her hair though filthy tumbled down her back in chocolate brown curls, hinting at a beauty that could be achieved if she wasn't frightfully thin and angry-looking. She snarled lowly, and when the noise burst from her throat it was more like a wolf's growl than a girl's. Greg took a step back instinctively, but Sherlock wore his usual unimpressed frown. His own eyes glittered as he greeted the woman with a cordial nod.

 

“Isobel.”

 

The woman quirked a grin at the sound of her name, but it bore about as much friendliness as a shark's smile. Her rosebud mouth twisted sourly, and she straightened herself into a fully standing position as she took in the incredibly tall and lanky form of the Detective before her. When she spoke, Greg stared in surprise. The voice that came out of her mouth was not human.

It echoed, thrummed like one of The Fates' when they got on into a prophecy. It was bell-like and echoed with a brassy clearness, and it left Greg feeling a little weak at the knees. He could feel his vision tunnelling slightly, as if his stomach was falling out from under him.

 

“What d'you want oh _**Cursed One**_?”

 

She spat the words at him with a sneer, and Greg felt his jaw tighten slightly at the slur. Though most people didn't believe in Curses or Magic at all for that matter any more, he still tensed whenever that word was used. It reminded him of past lives he'd just as soon forget. Sherlock seemed unaffected by the mocking tone, his voice bland and bored. At least on the surface, because his fingers were drumming a mile a minute at his side.

 

“I need you to help us.”

 

Isobel, adjusting her ragged coat so that it clung to her thin frame delicately, faded into the shadows. However her voice continued to ring, seeming to suck all of the air out of the room. Coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. She clucked softly.

 

“Not interested. Not unless'cha get me some kind o' payment.”

 

Greg snorted softly, and sounding braver than he actually felt, torqued one brow upwards.

“What? Like promising his first born child to you? Someone's been spending too much time by herself.”

 

A low, cackling giggle that could freeze blood and made the hair on Lestrade's arms stand on end. At once both of their heads turned to the ceiling, and Greg's mouth parted in only slight surprise as she saw her lithe form dangling from the ceiling. Her arms braced against the stone like she had sticky limbs. Like a spider. He shuddered ever so slightly.

 

“I like this one.”

 

She murmured, blue eyes locking on the silver-haired D.I. From the angle she had titled herself at, they were like twin stars pinpointed above his head. Greg couldn't look away, and he felt his chest heave for air that he couldn't swallow even as his eyes became wide and black with the dilation of his pupils like the empty void of space.

“He looks t' be a fair price...”

 

He heard her purr as if from underwater. It was like his mind was slowly being pulled out of him, drawn by the pure colour of those eyes. In the next second Sherlock was breaking the staring match by stepping between them, forcing Greg to blink by shoving him lightly behind the expanse of his coat.

“Stop that.” Sherlock said irritably, and all at once like puppet strings being cut Greg could breathe again. His knees gave way as he fell hard onto the stone floor, gasping and gulping for air as he clutched at his throat. His limbs trembled and fireworks darted behind his eyelids as he blinked rapidly.

“You _know_ he's not on the table. My brother would be fairly angry with me if I handed him over to the likes of _you_.”

 

Isobel sighed, the sound low and bored. In a flash she was suddenly back on the ground, her figure lithe and graceful as her hips swayed as she rose. She murmurs to herself almost spitefully, and Greg in that moment has never been more relieved to be put under the protection of Mycroft Holmes. His eyes water from the pain and relief that comes with being able to breathe once again, and slowly he rises to his feet.

“Th' damn _**Protector.**_ Don' want him on my trail, not even fer someone so _delightfully_ saucy.”

 

She twirls a necklace at her throat in careful thought, and her dirty hands are elegant and long. Fingers that would be good for piano playing, or perhaps plucking back a bow and locking it in aim for someone's neck. They move with the restless energy of a tomcat, and when her eyes fix back on Sherlock's face they clutch at the twine chain like she might like to snap the threads to pieces. Her eyes narrow in calculating thought.

 

“This ain't some passin' favour is it? You want somethin' _badly._ ”

 

Her eyes drop to his hands, and her lashes lower knowingly as a small smile curls up her cheeks.

“Yer dyin' again soon. Yet yer shakin' so bad I can see it from here. What's got you so worked up 'bout _this_ Reincarnation that you'd consider consultin' a Demigod?”

 

When he doesn't answer right away, her eyes darken.

“You want me t' open that Damn _**Book**_ don't you.”

The way Isobel says it doesn't make the words sound like a question, but Sherlock nods. Stiffly.

His lips are pressed into a tight line, and Greg is surprised to see that the woman before then is _right._ Sherlock _is_ trembling. Not out of fear, but with a riled impatience. A sense of ticking foreboding that one only feels when they are facing a death that is imminent and certain. An adrenaline that leaves his very bones tingling and his chest squeezing painfully. His voice is level despite it.

 

“I _need_ more time here Isobel-”

 

“ _That **Book** is bloody dangerous Holmes!”_

 

She screeches so that her voice rings in outrage and makes Greg want to tremble, and her eyes glow hotly in the dark. In that moment she is less girl and more Goddess, and the walls rumble lowly with a promise of thunder.

“I told ya t' _burn_ it an' what did ya do?! Ignore me! Th' _nerve_ of Humans! D'you never _learn_ from yer mistakes?!”

 

Sherlock however refuses to back down, though Greg knows that both of them are recalling that rainy night in Athens so long ago. They are remembering the way the ground had shook beneath their feet, tossing them like wet kittens to their knees and the white lightning that blasted down their spine. They are remembering the horrified expressions on their faces as they looked at the other and realized they could not die. Greg rubs absently the Mark on his chest. It tingles and aches, screaming at him to recoil and turn away.

To avoid becoming _**Cursed**_ again.

 

The Detective's voice shouts over the din.

“Isobel! _Something_ is happening with the Spell! I know you do not like to deal with matters of Gods or Humans, but listen to me when I say this: I will give you _anything_ that is within my power to give if you open _**The Book Of Moons**_ for me!”

 

Wind began to tug at Sherlock's belstaff, wind that couldn't have been real because _they were inside a fucking tunnel_ Greg thought. It tossed the man's curls away from his face and made his blue-green eyes flicker like twin fires. In that instant, Lestrade saw a ghost of the young man sitting under the olive trees, reading from a papyrus scroll and writing his observations down. That same driven glint, except now it was directed solely on the Demigod before him. They are almost as sharp and edged as Isobel's. Like Sherlock is barely Human himself.

 

Through her distress, Greg can see her irises flicker hungrily. The promise of a payment that _she_ could name the limit of was promising. The wind died just a little bit as her anger receded into curiosity, hot and molten in the expressive curves of her features. She licked her lips greedily as a brow arched, and suddenly Isobel was back to coy sweetness.

“Anythin' now? Aren't we being just a little bit hasty with our promises? What's got you so riled....”

 

She makes as if to come onto the man, hands reaching out flirtatiously, but they still as she seems to blink and peer hard at something at Sherlock's chest. Greg looks to where she is staring but sees nothing, only the black coat and the peek of his immaculate suit under his clothes. Yet she gaps and recoils, those glowing eyes blazing as she looks up at his stoic face with such pity and morbid amusement that Greg feels his stomach clench slightly. Her chuckle is almost sad.

 

“ _Oh._ There's someone _important_ to you, isn't there?”

 

And she grins, clasping her hands together and doing a sort of manic dance for joy. Greg looks between them, brows furrowed in confusion.

“How can she know-”

 

Isobel snorts and rolls her eyes, looking at him as if he were suddenly dirt beneath her feet.

“I was conceived of a Goddess who had sworn to remain celibate. My _powers_ as a direct result are extremely sensitive t' empathy and feelings around me. Right now his Mark is practically _glowin'_  with desire and love.... The poor fool's smitten.”

 

She smirks, and Sherlock's jaw tightens infinitesimally. His voice drops lower in pitch.

“Despite your _opinions_ on what love does to a person I assure you my mental faculties are perfectly norm-”

 

“My price is you kill him.”

She says simply as she crosses her arms over her chest, and both men for a moment freeze. Greg sees Sherlock's hands tighten into fists, and he grips his shoulder tightly as those eyes snap into flame and he strains against the restraining fingers. Isobel, looking smugly proud of herself, arches a brow.

“That just proves that you, just like _so_ many others, are caught in a lie Holmes.”

 

Then she makes as if to turn away, hips sashaying mockingly as she seems to melt into the shadows. Her voice echoes softly, fading into the distance. Like helium being let out a balloon its strength leeches away.

“Don' come back. I have no deal t' make with fools of love....”

 

Sherock fights against Greg's grip, his voice hitching upwards a notch as he barks into the darkness.

“ _Wait!_ Isobel!”

He grits his teeth as no response answers him, and in a fit of strength he shoves Greg aside, growling out into the shadows in desperation.

 

“ _I can't lose him! I can't take this **Curse** any more! Isobel!!”_

 

A beat of silence that stretches, as both realize the words that have just been spoken. A silent promise between the two men severed in that second. Greg gapes slightly, feeling as though the world has tilted on an angle. No matter how tough the life they're given, no matter _what_ happens, the two friends had never once acknowledged the desire to give in. To give up. To do so was to invite the idea that they had been _wrong_ , something that Sherlock had aggressively denied and fought against for decades upon decades, lives upon lives. They had refused to bend against _**The Curse,**_ refused to let it break them. Together they had ground onwards, aware of their suffering but stubbornly ignoring it. That was how it had always, _always_ worked. If neither of them spoke of it, neither would break down. Neither would lose their minds.

Neither would stoop so low as to grovel and beg for an end.

 

And yet here was Sherlock, the man Cursed for having _pride_ , almost driven to his knees.

The man once so resolute and cold now driven and a little bit mad and _desperate._

 

Isobel's voice makes both men jump fractionally, sounding softly by their ears.

 

“D'you think your little lover will _appreciate_ this? That he'll _thank_ you for tryin' to make him live longer than any Mortal should? D'you think he won't come to _resent_ it? Resent _you?_ ”

 

Sherlock feels his breath catch, and he tries very hard not to picture John's face in his mind. John looking at him in betrayal, John _hating_ him. John telling him to _leave._ John shouting at him _“What the hell have you done to me?”_ Like the man was a monster. John _looking_ at him like he was a stranger. The confidence he had that his plan would work suddenly crumbled under his feet like candy-glass. Frail and useless. Leaving him to the swirling doubts he had refused to acknowledge. Because _this_ was Isobel's ability, her true one. She was able to take relationships and twist them, let them fester in a person's chest until they mutated from something pure to something dark and warped. He swayed slightly, and the Demigod's voice was strangely heavy and sad as it hummed along the tube walls, melodic and strange and elusive.

 

“My price is _this_ Sherlock Holmes. You tell him. Tonight. You tell him _all_ your dirty little secrets, and if he rejects you, so be it. No chasin' after him. No pining and no _begging_ because m'dear, you _really_ don't have the legs fer grovellin'. You simply let him go, and ignore this fantasy you've created in yer head. This _illusion._ ”

 

Sherlock swallows, and he can feel the pit in his stomach rolling over, threatening to make him heave. Black and sticky it coats his throat and claws at him, the image of John hating him. Still his voice doesn't tremble as he speaks, and in that moment he feels in himself a small sense of cautious pride.

“And if he stays?”

 

Silence.

Only the distant sound of dripping water, probably condensation from a pipe system. Then Isobel's voice sighs tiredly, and he hears her murmur finally

 

“I will go to _Th' Diogenes_ on the next full moon. If yer pet actually agrees to all of this, I will open and perform the _**Bonding Spell.**_ ”

 

“Thank you.”

The Detective murmurs reverently, and Greg wishes suddenly he had a camera. He's never seen such a humble expression locked on Sherlock's face before. There is a small, bitter laugh.

 

“Don' thank me yet Mr. Holmes. My price still stands..... and you alone will have to deal with the price of _**Cursing** _ another life to your wretched Fate....”

 

And Isobel, daughter of Dianna is gone with a breath of night. A lonely moan of clinking jewellery and tinkling charms.

 

****

John realizes he's been drugged the moment he wakes, mostly because of the pounding headache he has but more because as he turns over and sees the cheery red lights of the digital clock blinking at him, they read 12:30. He never _ever_ , for the life of him had ever slept past eight in the morning. Not since his teenager years anyway. For a moment he just lay there fuzzily, trying to make the numbers make sense in his muddled head. Then everything sort of slowly clicked into place like two wires twining together, giving an electrical jolt of fury and panic through the Doctor's bones.

_Sherlock._

 

Christ, if this had been for some sort of mad experiment, he'd _kill_ him.

Worse, if he had gone out on some mad case and left John _behind,_ he might just refuse to let him sleep in the bed tonight.

 

With a small snarl of apprehension John throws himself into a sitting position, tossing the blankets off from their entanglement about his legs. The morning sunshine streams into the bedroom, glinting off of his hair in cheery welcome. He scowls at it, suspecting that it was most definitely going to be one of _those_ days.

 

The flat is deceptively peaceful as he steps down the stairs. John soon realizes the man is not back yet. A part of him is vaguely worried, however that worry dissolves into mere annoyance when he sees the bright yellow sticky note left for him on the table. Right next to the cup of water Sherlock had used to _drug_ him.

 

He groaned, realizing that he had work today and that yet again he would probably be calling Sarah and letting her know that he wasn't going to be in. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he resisted the urge to scream.

 

Dear God, did _anyone_ else have to deal with their partners or significant others pulling weird shit like this? In his bleary irritation, it seemed unlikely. John picked up the scrap of paper, recognizing the looping, sharp scrawl like the back of his hand.

 

_Will be home by Lunch._

_Drink some water and don't do anything strenuous. I'm sorry._

_Will hopefully explain when I get home._

_-SH_

Hopefully.

There was no 'hopefully'. Sherlock Holmes would bloody well explain what was going on or John would take to his latest experiments on the counter with bleach and disinfectant. He crumples the note in his hand and rubs at his eyes, going to open the fridge to look for some jam to make toast with only to close it when he catches glimpse of a human arm bearing the place of his favourite jar.

He slams the fridge closed so hard it rattles.

Grits his teeth.

Clenches his fists.

Red washes over him briefly before he stuffs the more violent impulses down, deep down where he cannot muse over them or listen.

 

He is suddenly reminded of the time he was waiting for a bomb to land in Afghanistan. He and his mates,all crammed together in a sandy abandoned building, the heat pounding down on them so that it was difficult to breathe and even harder to focus, the wind sweeping dunes into flat expanses of land as they all sat with baited breath for the weapon of mass destruction to hit the village nearby. John remembered the feeling of helplessness as he waited for hundred of innocents to become injured, remembered the way his heart had sang with blood and adrenaline and lulled him into a coiled spring of action, deceptively calm but ready to leap at anyone's throat in a moment's notice. That was how he felt now as he stonily stared at the door, and waiting for the tell-tale footsteps to signal the arrival of Sherlock.

Like he was a gas leak, and his partner was a lit flame, John couldn't be sure when the explosion would hit.

But inevitably, he felt it must happen.

As forceful as rainfall hitting the ground.

 

****

The footsteps are quiet.

Too quiet. Hoping he's still asleep.

It's almost laughable. Except John doesn't feel much like laughing. Instead his hand clenches at his side, and he has to keep from snapping something waspishly down the hallway and alerting his partner to his wakefulness. He forces himself to wait. Listening to those footfalls climbing slowly up the stairs. Like a drum beat, pulling and tugging at something just beneath his ribs.

Beckoning.

Demanding.

The steps creak loudly, and for a moment they halt. Both men listen to the silence, reading very different things in the lack of noise overheard.

 

Then they resumed with relief, confident in being able to handle whatever lay before them as Sherlock opened the door with a flourish-

 

and was confronted with the sight of a decidedly tetchy John Watson leaning on the kitchen table in noting but an old t-shirt and bright red bowers, his arms folded angrily over his chest.

… _... Damn._

 

“Afternoon.”

 

Sherlock stood halted in the doorway, blue eyes narrowing warily as he took in the ex-soldier before him, tensed as if he would very much like to lunge for his neck and throttle him. In a way Sherlock is rather shamelessly aroused by the light in those blue eyes, even if he suspects that sex right now is the last thing on John's mind. He tries to dodge the oncoming metaphorical storm by changing the topic.

“Have I ever mentioned that I find you incredibly attractive when infuriated?”

 

John doesn't crack a smile.

Doesn't laugh.

He also doesn't uncross his arms.

“You drugged me.”

 

His voice is flat. Harsh and bare and Sherlock winces away from the starkness of the statement. He wants to argue that when John puts it _that_ way he makes it sound ten times worse than it actually is. Except the words don't form in his throat. They stay locked in his chest, stubbornly bubbling and bursting to be set free. Instead he resorts to his usual defence. Becoming cold and aloof.

 

“It was for a case.”

He lies, because even though he knows he has to get around to telling John, he doesn't want to do it this way. Not with the Doctor already so angry and tense. He notices the way John's eyes darken slightly, and realize a fraction of a second too late that what he's said might not have been the best thing.

 

“Is it to do with Moriarty?! Sherlock I told you he's _dangerous_ -”

 

“John I assure you I can take care of myself perfectly _fine_ -”

 

In response John snorts, and the sound is cold and cutting and brings a flush along Sherlock's neck that he hadn't expected and for a moment he wants to shrink away like he's facing a tiger instead of a lover. The Doctor's voice rises just slightly, and the mask of calm cracks into hot fury as his arms uncross and he clenches his hands at his sides.

 

“Do you now? Because a person who usually has a good sense of self-preservation doesn't usually _drug_ an ex-Army Doctor who _happens_ to be his _partner_ and then waltzes back to their flat like he's expecting a nice cup of _tea_!”

 

He spits the last word out like a curse, and something clicks in Sherlock's mind as he runs his eyes over the silhouette before him. He can sense the anger in John, but it's not the kind of fury that involves shouting and breaking things. No. It is an internalized anger, cold and compressed but just as vehement and explosive, and his brain pieces together and knits the picture out in full as he says with somewhat awed disbelief.

 

“You....Were..... _worried....._ about me.....”

 

John didn't seem to hear his murmur. Now that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

 

“You left me a bloody _note_ and just disappeared like a ghost! _Left_ and went gallivanting off on some _clue_ without thought of bringing help or back-up! Did you even _call_ Lestrade? Because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do this without his permission! There's bloody _body parts_ in the fridge and there's an experiment left out on the table and it's starting to _ooze._ Damn it you berk-”

 

But Sherlock was suddenly closing the distance between them, and John is cut off in surprise as he is wrapped in a gangly embrace, smothered by a dark coat and drowned in the pressed cotton of the Detective's crisp shirt. He fights against it for a moment, struggled and curses, but Sherlock holds him steady, allowing him to land a few weak blows before John merely slumps against him dejectedly and sighs through his nose. His forehead comes to rest against that skinny, muscular chest in surrender, and his eyes close as he feels a spasm of pain clench just under his ribs. His left hand trembles slightly with tremors and he tries to still it, with little success. Sherlock's voice is low in his ears as he hesitantly reaches out to take his hand, stilling the shakes with his own fingers and massaging each knuckle until John's hand is forced to lie slack in his his. When it does this he interlocks their fingers together, his long digits comparative to the short, squared off ends of John's fingers.

 

“I....worried you.... didn't I?”

 

Sherlock sounded uncertain, but he still refused to let go of John as he spoke. His voice held a tone of vulnerability and disbelief in it, as if the idea that passed his lips was somehow ludicrous, or perhaps even miraculous. John felt his own fingers twitch, tighten about the Detective's hand, and some of his anger ebbed as he realized slowly that Sherlock truly had no _idea_ of how frightened he had been. With that knowledge came a well of wordless emotion that he couldn't quite suppress, and he reached up with his free hand to grip at the lapels of his coat, voice rough and low as he murmured into the fabric of his shirt. A gruff growl.

 

“Of _course_ you did you git. Why do you think I'm so mad?”

 

“Then you're not mad that I drugged you?”

 

“No. I'm most definitely mad about that too. But your safety kind of overwhelms that.”

He sighs then, as if he's explaining something terribly fundamental. Sherlock has to wonder bemusedly to himself if this is some sort of special trait that John has, or if the worry is typical in all relationships. However he thinks he understands as John looks at him and scowls slightly.

 

“It's like if I had just up and disappeared one day, only to come back later on and act like nothing had happened. How would you feel if you woke up and saw I was gone? That Moriarty had kidnapped me again like at the pool, or worse?”

 

Something hot and metallic for a moment edged in Sherlock's chest, making his grip suddenly tighten and a small possessive sound coming from the back of his throat. He understood, in that instant. Because he had dared to imagine John suddenly vanishing, and for just an instant he considered murder. Or searching for his Fall all too early.

Grunting slightly, John pulled away.

 

“I would never let that happen John.” Sherlock states quietly and slowly, eyes burning in the sudden need to reassure his partner. He grips his shoulders and leans down towards him until their foreheads brush ever so slightly, and John's eyes soften as he sees the panic in the Detective's eyes.

“I would never let Moriarty have you.”

 

“I know love. But you need to accept the fact that it works both ways. If you would panic over a certain situation if the roles were reversed, then chances are I'm going to panic too.”

 

At the term of endearment Sherlock startles slightly, but doesn't protest when John lightly cups his cheek in his hand and wraps his fingers about the soft curls at his neck, pulling him down to his height for a soft and wanting kiss. The Detective wondered to himself if he would panic, if put in the situation of finding out his lover was a Reincarnate and was about to ask him if he would join him in his _**Curse**_ for all eternity.

Then he decided that he probably for once didn't want to know the answer to that question, and settled instead for sucking lightly on John's lower lip, something that made the Doctor sigh as the last vestiges of anger left him.

 

“I'm sorry. For frightening you.”

Sherlock breathed into his ear, and then accentuated his apology with a small nip to the outer shell. In response John shivered a little and let his head fall back invitingly, willing to make up for the shouting and turn it back into tentative embraces and warmth. However the Detective then pulls away with a low sigh, and his eyes are pained. Like they hold an thunderstorm in their depths they are a soft grey, and John has known him long enough to know that they only achieve that shade when something is deeply distressing Sherlock. Some of his fear returns as the man gently strokes his hair, as if he's making sure that John is still there. That he won't vanish if he blinks. He feels his throat close tightly.

 

“Sherlock.... What's wrong?”

 

“John....” He trails off, and then his eyes close in pain. When he opens them again, they are grim.

“What if.... what if I had to disappear one day.....What if I _couldn't_ stop it?”

 

He says the last bit softly, too softly. John remembers suddenly the combat breathing that the military had taught him for dealing with stress. Four four four. In and out. He does it without even thinking, to keep himself from shouting. From shaking a straight answer out of his partner. He feels in that moment like he's back at the pool, back when he had several layer of Semtex strapped to his chest and was facing gunpoint. John's blue eyes are alight with distress kept calm under the soldier's iron control, and in that moment, Sherlock sees the potential for his explanation to end disastrously. If he ever needed to be able to be sensitive to the emotions of a situation and to be eloquent in speech, now would be the time. Unsure of what to say, he instead guides his partner to the chair he sat in only this morning, seating himself across from him and wishing more than ever that he could make good tea, if only to help relieve the pinched expression on John's face.

 

He wonders when John's pain became his own.

Or when it was that he started to become wounded every time he worried or disappointed him.

His hands folded themselves unconsciously under his chin, and his knees curled up against his chest. Sherlock found it hard to find a place to start, every piece of information inside of him insisting to be heard, to be accounted for. It scrambled itself, dates meaningless for the man who'd lived endlessly, twisting and folding over itself so that his many lives had no order and no sense of reality. Chaos. A chaos that he was now planning on pulling John into. He swallows, and is surprised when John seems to read his hesitation and understand.

 

“Just go from the beginning.”

 

“You're not going to believe me.”

 

“Sherlock....” And then his hand reaches over, pulling the Detective's hands away from their white-knuckled pressing against each other. John's blue eyes are like an ocean, surrounding and drowning him. Except it's soothing, like a blanket instead of a tidal wave. It grounds him. Stops the shouting inside his head. The Doctor's voice is kind.

 

“ _Trust me.”_

 

And so for the first time, Sherlock opens his mouth and _trusts._

Trusts the words that come of his mouth will make sense.

Trusts that John will listen.

Trusts that he will _believe._

He speaks and speaks, words flowing together and knitting a fantastic tale about a young Greek scholar and his friend, about Gods and Goddesses and strange magic and _**Curses**_ that should bring a man to the brink of insanity and yet hadn't yet. He spoke of Spells and Temptations and Marks on his chest (which John had commented on before during a more loving and heated time “Looks just like a little owl, so weird!”). He whispered of the time he had met King Henry VIII and accused him (rightfully) of murder, and how he had later been beheaded and his body tossed off of a bridge. He told John about the time that he had the honour of meeting Nikola Tesla and worked as a young apprentice under him, only to accidentally fry himself getting struck by lightning and falling from the roof of his home. He told him of the loneliness, the aching emptiness of living a thousand times over, and he told John about the tea cup. Because John didn't interrupt him. Didn't laugh, didn't judge and didn't look at him as if he was insane.

He talked and talked until the sun began to set red in the sky like the colour of a pomegranate, and still he found more words to say, more lines to add. It was like a dam bursting, and a part of Sherlock wondered if he was being almost irritating with his long dialogue that stretched without even pause for breath or consideration.

Yet John looked at him with a gaze that said anything but.

No.

 

Instead his eyes slowly got wider and wider as Sherlock explained more and more, and he realized through the haze of shock and amazement that his partner had fallen into silence, regarding him hesitantly as if he was afraid that he might suddenly lash out or accuse him of lying. Except John couldn't do that even if he had wanted to, because his limbs seem to have decided to atrophy. To have gone completely unresponsive and dead so that he can only stare at him blankly, his jaw hanging slightly open in surprise and shock. And then because Sherlock is restless and cannot meet that dazed look for a second longer he stands, whirling around to the desk in the corner with a murmur of

 

“I can prove it. Just stay there.”

 

As if John had any intention of moving any time soon. Christ, he had been expecting something Moriarty had cooked up. Some sort of blackmail or trap. Instead, he found himself strangely imagining Sherlock in a toga. The image is so funny that he has to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood to keep from laughing hysterically. His partner rifles through a drawer that has usually been kept locked until now, muttering under his breath until he found a small, stained envelope and held it up in his fingers with a flourish. Then he turned and handed the envelope to John, fingers tapping impatiently as he forced the Doctor's unresponsive hands to move. John's hand brushes something smooth and flat inside the paper holder, brow lowering as he takes out a small stack of photographs. His mouth falls open slightly as he beholds the images in the pictures.

 

Sherlock, dressed in a crisp white shirt and breeches, only about eight in the black and white photograph. He is scowling, clapped under the shoulder of a woman that looked strangely enough like Sally Donovan, her hair tied back into a severe bun and her fingers digging into the boys' arm as if she suspected he'd run away.

 

John flips the picture over and reads the neat handwriting on the back.

 

_**1849 Mississippi.** _

 

Sherlock's deep baritone rumbles softly as he looks out the window distantly. Remembering that life.

“She was the family slave then.... the nursemaid to me. She hated that Reincarnation almost as much as I did.... Harriet Tubman escaped slavery that year....”

 

The photograph is old. Very old. It's obvious in John's hand as he runs his fingers over it, feeling the textures wrinkles of age and the frailty of the image. He is certain it is not faked. Sherlock's scowl is just too realistic in the image, and Sally Donovan would never help out in some elaborate prank. His hands turn to other images.

 

Pictures of Sherlock as a teenager, in some wearing more modern clothes. In others clad in tunics and breeches, or even tights depending on the position of his life at the time. Wearing crowns in some and looking like beggars in others. Some of the photographs aren't actually even photographs but tiny paintings, bearing his Detective's likeness in their shining blue-green eyes and cupid's bow mouth. Here and there in the backround are faces he's also familiar with, glimpses of Anderson scowling in the back or Greg grinning roguishly by Sherlock's stoic features. In one image Mycroft stands to the side, dressed in seaman's garb and bearing a sword. Beside him stands Sherlock, dressed in an elaborate red sailor's coat and tipping a crimson hat with a feather blooming out of it and a cutlass at his side. His ears are filled with rings and his hands glitter with jewels. They stand beside a massive ship that floats on the sea simply called _The Mourning Star._

 

A voice echoes in John's head, ironic and soft.

_**Initially, he wanted to be a pirate.** _

 

He chuckles to himself somewhat hysterically then, and Sherlock raises a brow in response. Then they're both laughing, unable to stop themselves as nerves get the better of them and they look at each other, and start laughing even harder. Sherlock's baritone rumbles good-naturedly like the rolling of stones down a hill, and John's is light and airy like a babbling brook. When they finally get a hold of themselves, Sherlock stills, looking at the picture with a mixture of sadness and fond affection.

 

“I did love that ship.”

 

And he remembers what his name had been then.

_Scarhand Sebastian. Terror of the seven seas._

 

John smiles, and it is like the sun rising up above the horizon. He looks at Sherlock and then reaches for him, hands brushing over the shoulders that have bared a thousand existences, and seen over a million fascinating things. Yet those eyes look at _him_ like he is special and some kind of treasure. Like he is worth more than any riches or gold or amazing sights that he has seen, and that there is no place else he'd rather be than in rainy little London, so long as they were together.

 

John has never felt so honoured, or so much in love.

Also steadily more aroused.

Their kiss starts out slow and sweet, but it soon builds into something more. Some sort of aching need to feel contact has arisen in Sherlock, and he leans into the kiss and braces his hands against the arms of his chair, rising slowly so that he can wrap his arms about John's hips and push him up against the wall, tasting his own desire mingling with his partner's as a heat builds between his legs and his ribs. John's lips part, allowing deeper access, and Sherlock takes it greedily as his tongue darts out, picking a steady rhythm as they both battle for dominance. Except neither really cares if they lose. Hands that are so delicate when they play the violin now dance as they slide the edge of John's jumper upwards, ghosting tanned skin and scars and tracing each one like they are lines to a map that leads straight to his heart. His own sturdy, capable hands mimic the movements, palming the buttons clumsily but making headway and making up for lack of finesse with want and need. Once the shirts are gone they are back to movement, heading for the bedroom by taking two steps at a time, never completely drawing away from each other further than arm's length. It is when they are fumbling at belt buckles that John finally breaks their kisses for air, and he gasps as his voice sounds low and rough and thoroughly wrecked and it sends a rippling heat shooting down from Sherlock's hairline to his gut and further down to his groin.

 

“I will make sure you don't disappear. Even if I have to follow you down to Hell to do it.”

 

And he presses a possessive kiss on the spot where the man's neck connects with his shoulder, and Sherlock can't help but moan and believe his word as Gospel.

 

 

****

Later, when they are wrapped in each other's embrace and breathlessly warm in the darkness of evening, John curls about Sherlock's thin frame and pressed his lips to the crook of his shoulder. Facing each other but with his eyes still closed, the soldier carefully makes his way along the pale collarbone that's rising and falling, tracing his way down the smooth skin until his lips come to rest on the Mark just below. Sherlock, unable to look down to see John's expression, rests his chin upon the head of blonde locks and thinks quietly, his mind no longer trying to tear itself apart in trying to find an answer to phantom problems. His eyes glow in the moonlight, and his muscles flinch slightly when they feel the heat of break against the Mark, before he leans into the touch and exhales a steady, loud sigh.

John's voice is low, still slightly hazed from the post-coital warmth leaving his limbs heavy and slack like lead. His blonde hair glints silver in the moonlight. A soft voice, gentle and hesitant and unsure of itself.

 

“What's it like..... living over and over again?”

 

What Sherlock wants is to tell him about the good things. The amazing parts, like how he got to witness the creation of Venice and how he was once a painter in Paris. He wants to tell him about how he grew up in a Native tribe in one life and learned their culture, how he danced around a fire with painted skin and felt at one with nature in a single night as he slept under stars. The night before he _**Awakened**_. He wants to tell him how Greg once nearly got beheaded as he was the royal jester for a King lost long ago to time, and how Sherlock had (reluctantly) helped him escape by picking the locks to the dungeon. They had then stolen away to the kitchen's and gorged themselves on cinnamon bread and fine wine. He wants to murmur in his ear about the beauty of hundreds of bushels of hydrangeas, indigo-violet and dripping from the rainfall. Then he had been a traveller, hiking in the Himalayas. He wishes to fill John's dreams with promises and wishes and starlight, to fill his head with only the positive things to being _**Cursed.**_ Because a selfish part of him is hoping that if he tells him these things, he will want to stay. He hasn't asked him the most pressing question on his mind, the one that he yearns to know the answer to and yet is afraid of asking. He wants to ask John if he'll stay with him. If he'd be willing. He wants to lie and sweetly tell his good soldier that it will all be sunshine and warm summer days and never-ending wonder.

If he were still that greedy, prideful creature he had once been, he might've.

 

Instead he finds himself trying to warn John away. Beg him to leave before the darkness of Athena's Spell consumes him too.

 

“Its.... painful most times. There are good lives to be sure, lives that are interesting and beautiful and rich..... but there are also terrible things. Terrible lives that I've lived through that I never wished to see again. I've survived through plague, war and famine, murder and witnessed rape of both mind and body......”

 

He trails off, and John's hands tighten around his waist. A silent grounding so that Sherlock will not become lost in the fires of his own mind.

 

“I've watched temples _burn_ , and kingdoms fall to their knees. Horrors that I wish I could delete and can't....At first, Greg and I..... We didn't used to forget... at first.... We were born knowing of our _**Curse**_....”

Sherlock's hands tighten in John's hair, twisting the locks but not quite tugging. He seems to be only marginally aware that he's doing it as his body trembles slightly against him.

 

“But we began to go _mad_ John..... _I_ began to.... There were lives where I barely made it to five years old before I _hurled_ myself towards death, seeking an end. We couldn't adapt, couldn't be _children_ properly with the memories of hundreds of adults..... The Spell in the end gave us the small mercy of letting our childhoods become blissful ignorance....It adapted _for_ us, because it could sense we would not be able to spend another eternity in its clutches if it didn't. Athena wishes for us to suffer forever, but to do that she musn't kill our soul completely.”

 

John swallows, and he feels the pain in Sherlock's voice. The cracking, teetering edge that tells of him controlling his emotions, keeping his face blank even though his Partner can't even see it from where he lies. The Mark on his chest glints silver, like a cauterized scar staring back at him. It no longer looks quite so beautiful but tainted, a sour brand that proves to the world that Sherlock Holmes is not a free man.

That he is a slave to time.

 

John's voice is stronger than he expects it to be.

Even.

“That's horrible. I'm so sorry....”

 

“Why would you apologize? It's my own fault. I _was_ prideful. Perhaps even hateful, of the Gods. I longed to be like them, and in the end I paid the price for thinking myself above anyone else. And in the end I'll pay the price for you, and never get to see you again.”

 

Sherlock's voice is soft and resigned, having long grown accustomed to Fate. Yet John hates the defeated tone in its' depths, the sound of a man long having accepted his torture as the way life was meant to be. He feels his hands tighten slightly into rock-hard fists. John may not be brilliant or clever, but he often prided himself in being able to be a good judge of character. He had to be, being in the Army. You had to look at your team and read them, be able to find their flaws and their strengths, and make yourself work as a cohesive unit. Whole. As a result he could quickly find the good in a person, almost as quick as he could see the bad. And Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he _didn't_ deserve a life of unending loneliness.

Funnily enough, Sherlock was thinking the exact same thing about John.

That he didn't deserve to be _**Cursed.**_

Which was why he tensed when the Doctor muttered against his chest

 

“There _has_ to be another way.”

 

Because he _could_ tell him.

He _could_ say it.

But he didn't.

He kept his lips shut and refused the words access to air. Buried them deep inside his chest even as he pressed his nose to those blonde locks and inhaled deeply, his entire frame racking with the movement. His exhalation comes out more like a sob.

John's hands tighten about him.

 

“Sherlock.”

He whispers thickly, but the Detective doesn't want to talk about this. Doesn't want to test his resolve any further. He doesn't think he's that strong.

Instead he begins to murmur about the bad things and the good things, weaving stories about paupers and princes, telling tales of mysteries long solved and gone, still stored away in his head. Telling tales of debauchery and romance, heroism and thievery. His voice carries on into the night, lulling both men to sleep. John fights it, he wants to stay awake. Wants to ask Sherlock what can be _done_ about this or what can be changed. However he's a very good storyteller, and his voice is just the right frequency to calm even the tightest muscles of tension in his spine.

He fights it.

Still his eyelids grow heavy and his sight dims, and he cannot stifle the yawn that crawls up his throat and stretches his mouth wide. The last thing John feels is the Detective's lips pressing gently to his forehead, and Sherlock's voice murmuring about his life as an Emperor of China.

He thinks he is dreaming when the story cuts off and he hears a low voice whisper

 

“ _I love you.”_

Like a feather brushing his ear.

 

Sherlock is asleep himself before he realizes that at the utterance of those words, his Mark began to glow a soft and pulsating silver.

 

****

 

When he dreams, he remembers the circus.

Or rather, snippets of it. The breath of it.

The darkness.

It is a memory his Mind-Palace often tries to suppress, but perhaps because he opened up and told John everything, it floods his brain and catches him unaware. It's as if the doors he normally kept locked and shut opened now, their chains unbound and left unknowingly on the floor.

Like a spider leaping for an insect, ensnaring it in a web.

Sherlock remembers the circus.

 

 

__

_**Late Edo Period, 1800s** _

 

Sherlock, then called Shou, feared the dark.

His tiny limbs curled inwards against himself as he breathed shallowly through his nose, blinking and squinting against the blackness that surrounded him, blinded him, made visibility impossible in its' overwhelming presence. He strains to listen for any noise, palms streaked with dirt and God knows what else as he placed them flat on the earthy floor, listening nervously for any sign of an adult coming or worse, the Ringleader. Eyes glowing like a cats' he runs a fearful tongue over his lower lip in hesitation, shivering as the cold once again insists that he move. That he seek some source of heat. However his wounds disagree as he shifts and hisses, the sound low and keening in the dark. In response there are other whimpers and whines, sounds that should come from animals but instead come from the eerie glowing eyes of other humans, separated by metal bars and heavy chains. One metal shackle chafes against his leg painfully, the skin red and raw and threatening to bleed if he struggled. Still Shou desperately craved water, his curled locks hanging greasy and black in front of his eyes as his fingers pawed searchingly for the metal tin he was to drink out of. Hands that when they cross the pale sliver of light that comes from a single hole in the wall show scars from whips lining the youthful crook of his elbow. A scrawny limb, too hungry and battered to be attached to an entire body it seemed to his gaze. Yet somehow impossibly it was.

 

His fingers found the bowl, but upon dragging it to his ankles, he discovered it empty. He might have cried, if he had the energy or the inclination. Instead he tossed it so it clanged loudly against the metal bars, ringing out and startling the other children and the animals so that they shifted and hissed uneasily. He did not care particularly.

 

In boredom and to alleviate his thirst, he counted each of his protruding ribs. His fingers ghosted over each bone, tracing the faint scars and marks delicately. It had been nearly two weeks since he had eaten anything other than a mouthful of stale bread. He was sure that pretty soon he'd pass out. While a part of him wished for the darkness to take him, a bigger part cowered. If he went unconscious before a showing, they'd beat him for sure. He couldn't be certain, but from the angle of the moonlight streaming in through the hole in the wall, he guessed that there would be one in only a few hours. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he winced. Then he stumbled tiredly toward the only source of light in his cage and peered out, observing the red canvas of the tent as it stretched around a massive ring in the centre of the benches for spectators.

 

Though Shou couldn't read, he knew what the words said that were painted over the several holes in the walls that hid the deplorable conditions of his cage from sight.

_Freak Show! Deformities and Magical Creatures, Twisted and Warped for Your Pleasure!_

 

Curled in Japanese characters overhead and gleamed green and red. He grimaced as his eyes flicked away from the offensive thing above him.

He was not a freak.

But his Mother had thought so. As did most of the world. The memory of her selling him to the man with the shifty smile and the gleaming dark eyes named Hoshika made him want to spit. So he quickly thought of something else, because spitting meant losing water, and he was already thirsty enough.

His eyes flicked over towards the entrance to the tent, closed but whispering the vain hope of freedom. His shackles clanked loudly as he let out a tiny frightened whimper, unable to keep it entirely inside as he remembered what it had felt like to be dragged passed that curtain of tent and know he would never again see the outside of it. There was the low murmur outside of a line already forming of curious onlookers, and Shou wondered to himself how many children would be Taken tonight. The thought made his hands tighten about the metal bars of his cage, and he prayed that no one would be struck with acid tonight. He prayed that _he_ wouldn't be struck especially. It hurt, and though they hadn't gotten him in the face like some of the other children, his arm never stopped aching, burning. Neither did his left leg.

It was agony.

 

There was a noise suddenly, and he tensed, backing as far away as was possible from the entrance to his cage and curling into a defensive ball. Shou heard over the sound of his laboured breathing the sound of Hoshika the Leader of the circus laughing raucously with another man, probably one of the acrobats. They were treated better, unlike the Freaks of the show. Treated like almost people, and they often took pleasure in reminding Shou of where he stood in the circus by whipping him and making him run their errands. That is when he was allowed out of his cage. They seemed to joking about something, and his ears prick to listen even as the rest of his mind and body shuts down, curling into himself to avoid pain.

 

“Got a full house tonight of people it seems!” The stranger chuckled, and the boy heard the clink of throwing knives. Definitely an acrobat. Hoshika made a proud little snarling noise, and Shou could hear him adjusting his robes proudly.

“They're all thanks to the little brat on the inside of _this_ pen here.”

 

There is a thumping noise, as if the Ringleader has patted the wall to Shou's cage. The boy curls in further towards the shadows as he feels eyes peering into him from the hole, laughing at his frail body and scarred arms and hands.

“A psychic, even an _arrogant_ one like this whelp, has to be a gift from the Gods. Mother couldn't _wait_ to get rid of him either, best money I've ever spent.”

 

_Psychic._

That's what they called his deductions. What Shou _saw._ It was no superpower, only observation, but he had long ago stopped trying to tell the adults this. It only made them angry, and when they were angry they were cruel. The only one who had ever believed he wasn't a Freak had been the juggler, a young boy named Gorou, but he didn't get to see him very often as he wasn't part of the Freak Show and was paid for his work. He could juggle up to sixteen balls, and even light them on fire. It was something that dazzled Shou, and made him wish that his talents were looked on with wonder instead of treated like he was something that should be put down or dissected. The Ringleader's voice carried on, oblivious to the boy's thoughts.

 

“Look at the thing.” He said lowly in disgust.

“You can tell by his eyes that he's abnormal. No _pure_ Japanese have that colouring. His Mother must have been a _whore._ Wouldn't trust him outside of chains, no. If we turned our backs he'd probably kill us in our sleep.”

 

And Shou grit his teeth and buried his head against his knees, trying in vain to ignore the laughter that shook the walls of his cell. They faded as the men moved on and he was once again left alone, left to his thoughts and his deductions and his mind that wouldn't shut off. Restlessly it paced like a starved tiger, echoing the hunger of his empty belly and screaming for blood. Shou wished the Ringleader wasn't right. Wished that he wasn't a half-blood, or that he probably _would_ kill them if they ever let him go. But more than anything, he wished he didn't have to go outside. Didn't have to watch the people gape at him. Throw food at him. Laugh at his suffering.

He wished, but his prayers were not answered.

 

As the moon came to full overhead he was dragged out of his cage by his chains, thrown into a freezing tub to be scrubbed down by one of the Tumblers, and forced to sit as they put him a brilliant violet costume and painted his face so that half of his features were pale white, his eyes lined by blue. Then the woman placed a single crystal tear-drop jewel just under his cheek, and Shou couldn't help but smirk just slightly. It mimicked crying, but he had no more tears left to shed. He was empty and hollow, just like the gaping hole of his stomach.

 

Then The Show began. Music played, loud and brassy and it hurt the boy's ears as he waited to be dragged into the ring, watching hatefully as the acrobats slowly filed in, carrying streamers that arced like dragons twisting in the air as they danced around Hoshika and the crowd cheered and roared. They flipped and spun effortlessly, having no wounds to hinder them as they scaled towers high above the people's heads and dove to the ground in death-defying falls. Shou watched them, wondering what it would feel like to climb to such a height just for the purpose of tumbling back down to Earth. Then the dancers come, weaving gracefully alongside exotic animals pressed into cages. Tigers that roared and snarled, and peacocks that fanned their wings and cooed softly. Finally the Tumblers and the jugglers and Magicians came forward, Gorou among the crowd. He spared Sherlock a small, sad smile before he beamed at the audience and began to juggle balls, the orbs bursting into flame seemingly mid-air before they touched his fingers. Never burning them.

 

It seemed like forever and yet it also felt like no time at all had passed before the music halted, and the performers all froze dramatically. Held to their spots by Hoshika's hand lifted dramatically in the air. Then his voice boomed out, rippling over the still crowd as loud as a strike of thunder.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen! For this part of the Show I shall require assistance from the audience!”

 

As he said this, the Freaks had all been lined up and shackled together single file. Shou fell into rhythm as the other children and few adults chained with him began to stomp, striking their shackles against the ground in a beat that was at once loud as it was eerie. It filled the tent of the circus and echoed, drawing tension along the shoulders of the audience as it built into a thundering crescendo. In front of him, Shou's eyes took in the other forms of the people around him in the dark. Some of them hideously deformed, others having mental deformities in some way. A pair of twins, stuck together at the shoulder. A child who was blinded with acid and now had to throw knives at targets. If he missed he was beaten. A man who people did not know the name of, merely calling him _The Dog_ because his brain had been opened and now he snarled and frothed at the mouth like an animal and howled in the night. All creatures that had once been human. All now looking hungrily onwards, afraid of the audience and yet unable to back away. Cornered, and Shou wondered when it was exactly that he began to view these people as normal, and the crowds of people as monsters.

 

“My good people, I present to you..... The Freak Show!”

 

A roar went up, and they were herded to the front of the ring like cattle to the slaughter.

 

****

When the audience has had its' fill of his deductions and have finished throwing food at him and taking turns beating him, the boy is left on his knees on the ground, chained to one of the posts that hold the circus tents up and seem to keep his little world from crumbling down around him. He is the last one, almost always the last one left to only the drunkest dregs of humanity intent on causing him pain. Even the girls, who were often taken to be raped publicly or tormented had already been dragged back to their cages. Gorou had tried to talk to Hoshika, tell him that Shou had been tormented enough. The Ringleader had rewarded his effort with a stinging slap that left even the raven-haired boys' ears ringing.

He hadn't blamed the young man for trying no further. After all, he had a family to feed. Even if his wife was cheating on him and giving him silver hair.

 

Now he lay, huddled and shivering, the tears of pain already dried salty on his cheeks, smearing the face-paint and probably making him look even more deranged than he already was, if possible. The night was cold as the wind whipped through the tent, and the moon hung low in the sky and gleamed its' pale shaft of light just through the top of the canvas. The patch that had sewn that part together was frayed and worn, and so the pale light painted everything silver as the little boy curled into himself, unable to take stock of what was injured and what wasn't any more. Then Shou, tired Shou decided he didn't care and moaned softly, eyes sliding closed as the moon touched the Mark on his chest and washed it in silvery light.

 

And then his eyes flew open, green-blue and glowing in the dark, and the boy _**Awakened.**_

 

 

 

And Sherlock woke with a scream. It was a violent start as he physically sat up, tearing himself away from John's embrace and clutching at his throat, hand clamped over his mouth as he tried to muffle the sounds coming from his lips. John was awake in an instant, realizing immediately what must have happened as he went from bleary confusion to sharp-eyed concern in an instant. He sat up and rubbed soothing circled into the pale trembling back beside him, rubbing his sweat-slicked spine as the man heaved and sobbed, reigning in his emotions tightly as he realized what was happening. He shook like a leaf and his skin was fevered and aching.

He couldn't breathe.

 

John had a split second of warning before Sherlock was suddenly bounding out of bed, hurtling towards the loo as he unceremoniously threw up everything he had in the porcelain bowl. He did this for several minutes, coughing and hacking, and John watched from the doorway tensely with a little notch of worry marking the indent between his eyebrows and nibbling at his lower lip. As soon as the man could stop he was on his knees, muttering soothing things under his breath as Sherlock clutched at him wordlessly and gasped, _tears_ streaming down his cheeks and his eyes wild and afraid.

 

“ _Shh_ love. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here _shh..._ ”

 

John wasn't really sure what he was saying, only the gist of the tone he was using as he stroked his hands through those dark curls, now wet with perspiration and glossy in the dim light of the loo. Sherlock's face was pinched and pale as he trembled, and he flinched like a wild animal at John's touch before he leaned into it like a man dying of thirst would lean into a pool of water. He clung to John and sobbed soundlessly, his tears never loud. Until now John had always assumed that Sherlock cried without noise simply because as a child no one had cared to hear him. Now he wondered if perhaps it was for more sinister reasons. Reasons he didn't want to think about. They both sat curled on the tiled floor as for a few moments all that could resound in their ears was Sherlock's ragged breathing, and John's mutterings of reassurances. Time seemed to stretch strangely as both of them held each other, fearing the other would disappear if they blinked. Like a mirage, the Detective wondered what it would be like to wake again in that kind of darkness, to have no one. To have no John to hold him. The circus was by far one of his worst experiences, and he wondered now how he hadn't killed himself sooner. Even without his memories, he had wanted to die. He closes his eyes against the memories, as if he can shut them out if he only escapes the inconvenience of seeing. Yet pressed behind his eyelids are flickers. Flashes of picking shackles. Brief snapshots of being torn away from Mycroft's arms (then he had been called Minoru) and loaded onto a cart, his own Mother clutching her blood money in her hands. Separated from even his _**Protector**_ and lost to the night that ensnared him. John comparatively was like the sunlight, and he clutched at him as if he would never see another ray of it again as he inhaled slowly, trying to remember who he was.

 _Where_ he was.

 

Not Shou. Sherlock Holmes.

Not a Freak. Despite how Sally knew he flinched at that term she used it.

Not a monster.

Still he answers in first person when John asks him, gently.

 

“What happened?”

 

His voice was heavy and yet weightless all at once. Devoid of any emotion.

“ _I hanged myself....”_

 


End file.
